


Infirmitatem

by elnic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elnic/pseuds/elnic
Summary: Taking place within the episode "Love Hurts", 11x13. When a witch is controlling a Qareen for an ancient curse, those affected are killed by their deepest, darkest desires. While Dean takes the plunge to steer a slightly innocent woman from harm, he took the curse - expecting anyone but who walked in. (Destiel)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks. Minor spoilers in here for season 11, with... My own adjustments. Enjoy, and, yeah. I don't own Supernatural, bummer. Here's chapter one! Reviews, please?

_"It's a creature," Sam's voice called out from the other side of the basement, flashlight shining down on the old book. "Corporeal in form… A slave to your commands."_

__

_Waving his flashlight into the corners of the room, Dean eyed the work table - the unfinished walls, the tools sloppily tossed around. "Kinda like a genie," he replied, a brief nod as he heard his brother continue._

__

_"I guess." A mumble, Sam running his thumb over the text, fishing out the information via the post-it note. The book was written in some old Arabian language, dating the lore of the creature far back than Sam appreciated. "Here we go. Someone chants a curse, lays a wet one on you, then the victim is seduced and killed by the Qareen." With a frown, he tapped the edge of the note, where it ever so slightly curled. "But instead of taking the form of Barbara Eden, they present themselves as your deepest, darkest desire."_

__

When Sam had gone upstairs to find the heart, Dean had anticipated Daisy Duke. Not Amara. It couldn't be Amara. His throat had clenched at the idea of it, watching his brother's long legs carrying him back to the main floor of the hair salon.

__

_"Ever since I was seven."_

It was a lie, Dean felt the pull too often. Amara practically called out, urging the hunter's body and spirit down a path he saw no return from.

_"... Whatever," Sam's voice rang through his ears, "I'm going upstairs." Their hands dropped, Dean holding onto a proud smile at his winnings of rock, paper, scissors._

Rubbing a hand over his face, Dean groaned, pushing back the base of a tub to check a musty corner. Nothing. Nothing but supplies to finish a basement. Simple, mundane things. He set the tub back down, sighing in mere frustration as he heard the clear tarp being pushed back. "Find anything?" He called out, glancing over his shoulder with no assumption of danger lingering. It was Sam, right? Coming back, ready to announce his discovery - the end to the damn curse.

There, between balanced slabs of wood, billowed a beige coat.

_No._

Bright, blue eyes fixed on Dean. Dark, messy hair, haphazardly styled, as if the person themselves had yet to grasp true understanding of a hairbrush.

_No, no… Daisy Duke. Daisy goddamn Duke!_

Backwards tie. It was him, but it most definitely wasn't.

_Not fair._

"Cas?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will continue much further than the episode's actual ending, be warned. Because I'm a big sap.

"Hello, Dean." The Qareen said, in that same gravely, deep voice Dean had become so familiarized with. His _friend's_ voice. His friend who was… Off doing who knows what, somewhere else. Not here. This wasn't Castiel. Still, the creature moved like Castiel. He spoke like him, walked with tentative steps like him. Hell, his eyes even held that tired gleam like him.

Dean stared, eyes trailing down, trying to find any difference. He knew there wouldn't be one, not on the surface. "Hey, yourself." He muttered, hands out at his sides like a warrior prepared for the attack. It didn't come, the Qareen simply stood in the unfinished doorframe, carefully eyeing the one so dumbly captured within the curse.

_Why couldn't it had just been Daisy Duke?_

"I'm beginning to understand," the creature spoke, head tilted in such a way that made Dean want to leap at the thing. He wanted to break any chance that monster had at doing that head tilt ever again, let alone wear that face. "That longing you continue to push down, that-"

A gingerly devised step towards the workstation, where a knife had been buried within cork - waiting for it's next use. Dean cut the creature off, snapping a, "Drop the act, _Qareen_. You ain't him." The monster all but watched, as if it was more invested in Dean finding a defense than making this kill easy.

Hell, he hoped it would be that easy. To grab the knife, put enough distance and time between himself and the Qareen for Sam to find the heart. It was stalling, in the worst way possible. But it wasn't unfamiliar, just usually more challenging. There was never a simple win, was there?

For a moment, that's what Dean thought it might be. He won the rock, paper, scissors for once, why couldn't he get another quick win now? But he knew better. Damn, did he know better. With a step too close, the Qareen snapped into action, breaking into a sprint for the knife. Dean had been closer, but his reaction time wasn't nearly as quick as the creature's.

It all went fast, the flapping sound of the trench coat tailing the Qareen like a disgusting reminder of who wasn't there. Of who, for so long, kept making ill decisions for the sake of doing what he thought was right. Doing what ended up, more often than not, being beneficial. And Dean hated that. He hated the sacrifices Castiel made, and for the first time in a long time, he was hating that beige coat.

Turning quickly on his heels, Dean, with the knife in hand, grabbed at the replica coat. He clenched the fabric in fist, slamming it against the table. As the creature threw out a hand, long fingers curling around a stubbled neck, Dean dug the knife into the fabric and wood of the tabletop. _A few seconds, sure. It'd give him a few seconds._

An angry grunt came from the Qareen, tugging until the fabric tore, hand still so desperately clutching Dean's throat. But it was enough, the human using his palm to put pressure on the monster's wrist, pressing down roughly until the form's skeletal shape had seemed to snap backwards. He brought his knee up next, connecting vigorously with the Qareen's stomach.

He hated this. He hated seeing the face before him, doubled over as it took another blunt force - this time to chiseled cheekbone. Dean could recognize the anger growing in it's eyes, the blue it had so idiotically stolen burning darker. He knew once the anger boiled over, the knife in coat would be useless. It'd tear.

Dean hadn't expected it to be so soon, an animalistic cry escaping the chapped lips of an otherwise desperate expression. Against the sound of gunshots from upstairs, Dean heard the telltale noise of fabric ripping. It made him cringe - not because of the monster's escape, but of what he knew he'd see if it was really Castiel in front of him. If it was Castiel, not this ruthless thing, unintentionally snagging his beloved coat. There'd be a pout, minor confusion, and a blunt statement of how _inconvenient_ the whole thing was.

Slammed against wall, Dean grunted, eyes breaking away from the now abandoned coat as the Qareen pressed it's arm against his neck. Suffocation, as it lifted it's arm, reeling back with a closed fist. It was going for the heart, like the previous victims. It was going for the goddamn heart as it stared at Dean, eyes narrowed in an expression that was heartbreakingly familiar.

"Cas," the nickname left his lips before he could control himself, "c'mon, man." He knew it wasn't Castiel, he knew, yet the words came out like vomit. It wasn't until the simple phrase, "where the hell are you" rolled off his tongue that he knew he wasn't talking to this imitation. Was he praying? After all this time, using cell phones? It didn't matter. Castiel didn't have that damned ability to fly anymore, he wouldn't be here.

He shouldn't be here, as Dean's face heated red, his boots kicking at the black pants the Qareen sported. He shouldn't have to see this, even if it was fueled by a curse. It still had the shapes, the blue eyes, of a picture that would most likely hurt Castiel far too much. Castiel could never know the ache this caused Dean, as the man curled his hand around the monster's wrist, trying with the remainder of his consciousness to hold it back from penetrating his chest.

And then, just like that, everything stopped. It grew eerily silent, as the Qareen's hand fell, and confusion washed away any rage or determination it possessed. It stepped away, eyeing Dean before the spark of understanding filled those blue eyes with such fear, Dean himself had to look away.

By the time he looked back, it was gone. The room was with Dean alone, the distant sound of rushed footsteps echoing against walls. From that distance, he heard Sam call his name, but Dean couldn't take his eyes off the knife, pinstraight in the tabletop. No coat in sight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, brought early because I'm impatient!

“Dean?” 

The knife wobbled lightly, as if it was still trying to find balance from the force that no longer tugged against it. It pleaded with the world around it to let it fall, find some peace after being used to stall. Stalling wasn’t what a knife was meant for, any type, and as the wooden handle flopped side to side, Dean began to wonder if the object knew that. 

_“Dean!”_

Blinking to clear his increasingly blurry sight, Dean flicked his gaze to his brother. Tall, looming over him with his eyebrows pressed together. As soon as he made the eye contact, Sam sighed, dropping his hand away from Dean’s arm as he rocked back on his heels. Worry continued picking at the younger brother’s chest, burning through his desire to leave as he glanced around the basement. A knife had been moved, but other than that, it didn’t seem to be the aftermath of a common Winchester battle. And once his hazel eyes landed on Dean again, he knew he wasn’t going to get a clear answer. 

Not with that shit-eating smirk, that didn’t exactly meet his eyes. 

“What’d I tell you, Sammy? Daisy freakin’ Duke.” With a brief clap to Sam’s shoulder, Dean slipped around him, heading towards the stairs as he tugged the Impala’s keys from his coat pocket. He didn’t let himself acknowledge that his smile faded as soon as Sam could no longer see his face, or the way his shoulders sagged and his fingers itched for his phone. He wanted to call Castiel, to make sure he was alright. He wanted to hear the voice of the damn angel and have it actually be _him._

He needed to make it clear to Sam that this wasn’t going to be a conversation. 

And perhaps the younger sibling caught on, like he usually did with his emotionally constipated brother. Instead of trying for a talk, he got Melissa into the backseat, and remained fixed on the passing road as they drove her home. And once she was safe inside, only then did he part his lips, inhaling air to start the conversation. Dean was faster, shaking his head and turning up the radio without taking his eyes off the road. It wasn’t a long drive to the motel, but it was late, and he knew Dean wouldn’t talk once they got there, either. Or at least, Dean hoped Sam knew. He wanted sleep, and to maybe send a harmless text to his friend. 

****

“Dean,” another puff of cool air as the Impala slowed into a parking spot out front of a neon sign. It had been a ride full of Blue Öyster Cult and the soft taps Dean’s fingers made against the steering wheel as he followed the beats to the songs. He didn’t look at Sam as he put the car in park, and shut off the engine. 

So, it was no surprise when Sam tried again. “Dean.” 

“Not now, man. I need my four hours before we have some kinda _Lifetime_ moment.” Dean mumbled, fingers briefly messing with the ends of his sandy hair before pushing open the car door. He locked and shut the door, not waiting to hear a protest or grunt from Sam as he headed to the motel room. He vaguely recalled the windows being shattered inside, but he didn’t care, too exhausted in every sense of the word to give a damn. 

As he entered the room and dropped down onto the first queen bed he spotted, there was yet another trademark sigh near the front door. “We should sleep in the car,” Sam said, but his voice sounded distant and moving, and Dean figured he was walking around glass to get to his bag. 

Dean shifted, just slightly, to edge his body into a more comfortable position. He opened one eye, peaking at Sam with a frown, half his face pressed against his pillow. “Why?” His voice came out sounding like a disgruntled toddler, which only made Sam roll his eyes. 

“There’s glass everywhere, and it’s gonna get freezing in here in a couple hours.” 

“You’re gonna get freezing.” 

“What?” Sam sounded exasperated, like he was really and truly dealing with that said toddler. 

Closing both eyes finally, Dean smacked his lips together lazily, grumbling a loose, “shut up.” He didn’t want to talk anymore, and he didn’t want to feel that tightening in his chest. It penetrated every nerve, and he could feel it digging it’s way deeper, begging for reassurance and acknowledgement. He hated it, and yet, he couldn’t deny it. So instead, he fell asleep to the sound of Sam’s sighs and the wind hitting curtains. 

****

“Tell me again,” he started, a playful smirk pulling up chapped lips as he lowered to crouch in front of the demon, “why I don’t have what I want yet. Why,” he stepped closer, lifting a hand to brush his thumb along the crook of the woman’s borrowed neck, “you sad, little _minions_ can’t seem to find a _single clue_ to what I’m looking for? I did tell you all, didn’t I? I know these baby blues I’m sporting might make ya think I’m sweet, but-” 

“My lord, she-” Blood splattered, smacking distastefully against the dark suits of the demons standing around the deceased. Well, what was left of him, after all. 

Lucifer’s hand fell from the demon’s face, his free hand twisted still in the shape of his snap, as his eyes flicked lazily to the mess. “See, he basically _asked_ to be blown up.” He spun, taking the small steps back to his throne, dropping down smoothly and gracefully. “Oooh, puppy!” A single shout, it’s all it took now for the ex-King of Hell to edge closer, eyes gleaming with hatred and fear. Another smirk tugged at the edge of Lucifer’s lips, head slightly cocked in a motion the body he was occupying was quite familiar with. He motioned towards the blood and chunks littering the floor, eyes still trained on Crowley. “Clean it up. Put that tongue to work, doggy.”


End file.
